


poetry in our symmetry

by Resamille



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: A Hint of Choking Kink, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Cheating, Friends With Benefits, Lance Is Conflicted™, Lovers to friends to lovers again?, M/M, Nyma as jealous antagonist, Pining Keith (Voltron), Two Hints of a Hair Pulling Kink, Underage Drinking, a hint of praise kink, at least by us standards and it's only a mention, but not within the main pairing, something like that, sorry Nyma ilu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-05-02 10:37:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14542890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resamille/pseuds/Resamille
Summary: When Keith and Lance first met, there was an instant spark.Volatile and vicious, but a spark nonetheless.Now, well into their sophomore year of college, as Keith finds himself in Lance's bed more often than he'd like to admit, he has to face the fact they've come a long way from their antagonistic beginnings. And really, this is good. They have a system, rules, and they both enjoy it. It's all just fun.At least, until someone starts falling in love.(Alternatively: Keith and Lance fuck each other in more ways than one, but it all works out in the end.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title from Tetris by Madilyn Bailey
> 
> thank you to [Neiku](https://quiz4naks.tumblr.com/) dealing w/ me for this bang lmAO bless you <3333
> 
> Initially inspired by Pacify Her by Melanie Martinez

The rules of the arrangement are as follows:

1\. They meet once a week, with the exception for midterms and other sundry valid reasons (i.e. that one dumb retreat thing Lance went to when he was out-of-state for a week).

2\. They aren't exclusive.

Caveat: Sex with outside parties must be protected, OR they must get tested before meeting.

3\. They each get at least one orgasm, with the exception upon one party voluntarily declining.

4\. They must get at least the same number of orgasms, with the exception upon one party voluntarily declining.

5\. Any spontaneous action does not count towards the weekly meeting, but may count towards number of orgasms.

6\. If unable to decide, topping is determined by a rigorous 2 out of 3 game of rock-paper-scissors. Winner gets to decide.

7\. No party is obligated to stay afterward, make breakfast, or offer sleeping arrangements, though parties are also not obligated to decline.

8\. Nothing is to change outside of weekly meetings and spontaneous action. Friendship is maintained and outside parties are not intended to know of the arrangement.

9\. It's just fun.

 

Keith's not entirely sure how this all started, but he's definitely not complaining when Lance sneaks up behind him after class and murmurs—low-pitched, wanting, dangerously sexy—something about “tonight” and “Hunk's not there.”

Which is how Keith finds himself pushed against the back of the door in Lance's dorm as Lance leaves nips and bites along his collarbone, teeth digging into soft skin until color blooms underneath.

There's always been a tension between them. It started out antagonistic, and then somehow became easy, comfortable: a friendship amid rivalry. The teasing rose in quantity and fell in modesty over time, and somehow—

Somehow, this.

Lance's fingers slip under Keith's t-shirt. His thumbs dig into Keith's hips, tugging Keith forward until he's using his shoulders to push back on the door. With a roll of his hips, Lance has both of them moaning, chasing friction through their clothes.

Keith lets out a breathy noise as Lance sucks a mark into his neck.

“Asshole,” he grits out. He feels Lance breath fan across his skin as he chuckles. “People can see that.”

“Yeah, they can,” Lance says, kissing over the newly sensitive spot. “Everyone will know how good you're getting it.”

Keith snorts. He pushes at Lance's hips to get him off, and when Lance stumbles back, Keith tugs at the hem of his shirt.

“You owe me one,” Lance says.

Keith pushes at Lance's shoulders, little jabs until the backs of Lance's knees hit his bunk and he bounces back on the mattress.

“Not my fault you wanted to give me a handjob in the middle of Thermo,” Keith mutters. He crawls over Lance, caging Lance's legs in between his thighs.

“I was boreddddd—ah—” Lance draws the word out, ending in a sharp gasp as Keith dips his head down and bites one of Lance's nipples.

Keith soothes the bite with his tongue, sucking on the nub until Lance is panting and canting his hips up to try and brush against Keith's body.

“You—” Lance huffs, and then hums out a breathy, pleased noise. He reaches for Keith's face, dragging him up along Lance's body until they're face to face. “You were the one who insisted I get you off.”

Keith pins him with an unamused stare. “I was not walking out of _Thermo_ with a hard-on. You've seen our prof. I'd never live it down if people thought I got off to _him_.” He grins. “If anything, I think you owe me for having to walk out with cum in my pants.”

“Nuh-uh,” Lance says. He squishes Keith's cheeks until Keith is making a fish face. “Nope. Not part of the deal.”

Keith rolls his eyes and leans back, extracting his face from Lance's hands. “How do you want it?”

Lance hums, thoughtful. “I want your dick in my mouth.”

“Jesus—”

“—It's Lance, actually—”

“—that's not what I asked.”

Lance lets out a dramatic sigh. “You make everything complicated.”

Keith looks at him incredulously. “ _I_ do?”

Lance paws at Keith's thighs, over his jeans. “Take this off. I have an idea.”

Keith sighs and complies. He has to get off of Lance to strip down, and his body misses the warmth immediately. Lance kicks off his pants and underwear, tossing them away. Lance's underwear hit Keith in the face as he's taking off his pants, and he ends up tumbling down onto the bed, flailing.

Lance laughs, a light noise.

Keith can't really find it in himself to be upset. Damn it.

Flinging his pants away and chucking Lance's boxers across the room, Keith flops back on the bed, over Lance's legs. “Now what?”

“C'mere,” Lance huffs. He pulls a leg out from under Keith and prods his shoulder with a toe. “You're being uncooperative. I'm about to blow you, and you're being uncooperative. How ungrateful.”

“I thought I was the one doing the work.”

“So maybe I do feel a little bad about making you walk home with cum in your underwear.”

Keith can't help but chuckle at that. He sits up. “Where do you want me?”

“Sixty-nine,” Lance says.

Keith has half a mind to laugh because _really_ , but he ends up crawling into position anyway. For a moment, he feels awkward with his knees planted on the bed above Lance's shoulders, but then Lance's breath fans across the head of his dick. A shudder works its way down Keith's spine.

Keith leans down, nuzzling against the inside of Lance's thigh. He bites the sensitive skin there—retaliation for the hickey Lance left on his neck—and feels Lance's gasp against his cock. Keith licks along the side of Lance's dick, running his tongue over velvet skin, and Lance finally—fucking finally—takes Keith into his mouth, sucking the head of Keith's cock between his lips.

Lance runs his hands up the backs of Keith's thighs, a gentle touch that has Keith shivering. Lance lets Keith's cock rest on his tongue, waiting for Keith to get on with it before he gives him anything more.

So Keith runs his lips over the head of Lance's dick, tongues at the slit and laps up the salty taste of precum. Lance's breath comes out in a stutter across Keith's skin. Keith lets his head sink lower, taking more of Lance into his mouth. Lance smooths his hands appreciatively over the curve of Keith's ass, encouraging Keith to let his hips slip lower.

Keith allows his knees to slide a bit wider apart, resulting in his cock filling up more of Lance's mouth. Lance runs his tongue along the side, teasing just below the head, and Keith moans around Lance's dick. Lance's hands grip onto Keith's hips, guiding him into short little thrusts that have Keith's dick bumping against the back of Lance's throat.

Because Lance doesn't have a gag reflex and likes the feeling of sucking cock, likes the weight and intimacy of it, and Keith knows this. And if he doesn't get Lance to come, soon, Lance is going to keep torturing him like this. It's part of the deal.

So Keith forces his throat to relax and slowly takes all of Lance. Tears prick at his eyes, but he bears it and bobs his head, adding pressure with his tongue and then hollowing his cheeks and sucking. Lance groans, vibrations of his throat echoing up Keith's spine.

Fucking Lance, Keith thinks, and goes down on him again.

Lance's thighs tense, and Keith can feel how tight his balls are when he bobs down and presses his nose against them. Sucking as he pulls back, Keith carefully thrusts deeper into Lance's mouth. For a moment, Lance chokes on it, and then he groans, and he's coming into Keith's mouth, forcing Keith to swallow around Lance's dick. Keith tries to pull his hips back to give Lance room to recover, but Lance wraps an arm around his hips, keeping him in place.

Stupid kinky asshole.

As Lance's cock slips from Keith's lips, some of his cum drips onto his thigh. Keith chases it, leaning over to lick the cum from Lance's skin. He takes the opportunity to suck another mark into the sensitive skin of the inside of Lance's thighs.

Lance lets out some sort of noise, and Keith lifts his hips enough that his cock escapes from Lance's lips. Lance takes in a harsh, shuddering gasp.

“F-fuck. Not fair.”

Keith rolls to the side, careful not to kick Lance in the face as he maneuvers so that they're face-to-face. “You deserved that, you kinky fuck.”

Lance grabs him by the back of the neck and tugs him down until they're kissing. Lance shoves his tongue into Keith's mouth, wet and messy, and under the lingering taste of Lance's cum, Keith can taste himself. Keith groans into the kiss, sucking Lance's bottom lip into his mouth. Lance's fingers thread through Keith's hair, tugging enough to send tantalizing sparks across Keith's nerves. Keith moans, mouth going nearly slack against Lance's.

Lance pulls away, breaking the kiss. Keith automatically latches onto Lance's jaw, biting a mark into his skin. Lance will cover it up with makeup, anyway, but that's not the point.

“Now who's the kinky one?” Lance asks, pulling, gentler this time, on Keith's hair.

“Still you,” Keith gasps out, and begins sucking a new bruise into Lance's shoulder. He pulls back to make sure Lance knows he's right. “Choking versus hair pulling? Definitely you.”

“Asshole,” Lance huffs. “I want you to fuck me.”

Keith considers this. “Yeah, sure.”

“Pass me the lube.”

Keith picks himself up off Lance, going to the side dresser and rummaging through the top drawer until he finds the familiar bottle. “You're going to be sensitive.”

Lance splays his legs wider, arching slightly off the bed. He's showing off. Keith's throat goes dry, all the same. “That's what makes it fun.”

Keith passes him the lube, and tucks himself against the wall while Lance slicks up a finger and presses experimentally around his hole. Keith stares, watching as one of Lance's fingers dip into himself, a slow glide that has Lance moaning and Keith biting his lip to keep from doing the same.

As Lance works himself open, Keith's hand drops to his own dick, pumping slowly as he watches Lance eventually press another finger into himself.

Keith lets himself drink in the sight. He has to be conscious of his pace, instead of speeding up to match the movement of Lance's wrist, because otherwise he'll start chasing that base pleasure instead of just enjoying the moment, trying to make it last. He watches as Lance's body arches into his own touch, watches Lance's other hand reach for his own dick to give it a few pumps. He lets his gaze linger on the stretch of Lance's neck where he cranes his head to pant into a pillow, feels pride greedily culminate in his chest as he counts the number of marks he's left on Lance's skin.

They aren't exclusive by any means, but there's something deeply satisfying about staking his claim on Lance. A reminder to future lovers that Keith's fingerprints have left bruises on Lance's skin, that his lips left lasting lovemarks.

Lance isn't Keith's, but damn if he doesn't look as if he is. And damn if he doesn't look good like that, too.

“L-like what you see?” Lance gasps out.

Keith lets out a huff, but finds himself grinning. “I wouldn't be here if I didn't.”

Lance lets out a pleased hum. It's not exactly a compliment, because if Keith actually gave him that much it'd go to his head and also probably end this before it even really started. Lance likes being told he looks good, even if he already knows it.

“Just gonna stay over there?” Lance asks.

Keith would like to say that he made a conscious decision to move—maybe teased by letting out a contemplative noise before he reacted—but in reality, he's a weak man. He's sliding up Lance's body in an instant, running the palm of his hand up Lance's waist and over his chest. He settles against his side, and his lips find their home against Lance's collarbone.

Lance's breath hitches as Keith thumbs at a nipple. He nips at Lance's shoulder, kisses the sting away with gentle lips. It's far too fond. If only he'd recognize it, in this moment, for what it is. Perhaps things would turn out better.

But instead: Keith bites at Lance's ear lobe, tugging in between his teeth and dragging a moan out of Lance's throat. He feels Lance's breath against his neck as Lance turns towards him. The words “fuck me” are said against his skin.

“Ready?” Keith asks.

Instead of a response, Keith feels Lance's fingers skimming over his dick, swiping over it with the leftover lube on his hand.

“Thanks,” Keith deadpans. He's too breathless for it to actually sound annoyed.

“Welcome,” Lance replies cheerfully. “I want your cock in me.”

“Flip over?” Keith offers, because he knows this isn't exactly Lance's favorite position.

Lance hesitates for only a moment. “No, like this.”

“Fine,” Keith says without any heat.

He reaches down to line himself up.

If he was planning to mull over the reason why Lance wants this position instead of one of his favorites, Keith no longer has the brain power to question it. As soon as he's pressing into Lance, all coherent thought flies out the window.

Lance reaches around him, fingers digging into Keith's shoulder blades, clutching at his back. He wraps one leg around Keith, heel pressing into the small of Keith's back to get him to push in faster.

“Impatient,” Keith gasps out.

“Need you,” Lance huffs back. “Hurry the fuck up.”

“Impatient,” Keith growls, and rolls his hips.

Lance lets out a low, pleased noise at the movement. He slides his hands up, tangles his fingers in Keith's hair, and messily brings their lips together.

Lance shoves his tongue sloppily into Keith's mouth, reaching and searching. He swallows Keith's pants as Keith starts to pick up the pace, driving into Lance with practiced thrusts. Keith shifts his weight onto one elbow, and with his free hand, he catches Lance's leg in the crook of elbow, forcing Lance to stretch his leg higher.

Lance moans into his mouth. Keith can feel Lance's hole tighten around his dick.

Lance pulls back from the kiss to tilt his head back with a satisfied hum. “You—fuck me so good.”

Keith drops his head to press a kiss to Lance's neck. “You take it so well.” He pairs his words with a particularly hard thrust. “So fuckable,” Keith says. “Look so good taking my cock.”

Lance groans, and tugs on Keith's hair. Sensation spikes down Keith's spine, and he feels his muscles jump in response.

“Payback,” Lance pants.

Keith bites his shoulder, sucks the skin between his teeth. “You love it,” he tells the mark blooming there.

“No—” Lance chokes out.

Keith kisses the mark. “You do,” he insists. “Look gorgeous like this, all fucked-out.”

Lance lets out a keen. His fingers tighten in Keith's hair—not to tease, this time, but to hold on—and he arches his back to push against Keith. He starts to swivel his hips, only partially on-rhythm. Every once in a while, Lance's movement makes Keith slam into him especially hard, and Keith's thrusts keep the same intensity each time it happens, chasing pleasure.

“You love me—” Keith starts.

The erratic collide of their hips shoves all the air out of Keith's lungs.

“—fucking you,” he finishes belatedly.

But Lance's body is tensing around Keith, breath hitching and muscles quivering as he comes over his stomach.

Keith isn't lying when he says Lance is gorgeous like this; the sight, the feel of Lance tightening around him, the sharp tug on his hair—it has him following Lance over the edge.

“Holy shit,” Lance chokes out.

Keith waits for his breathing to slow down before he picks himself up off Lance's bed. He plucks a tissue from the box Lance keeps on top of his dresser and wipes off his dick. Then he tosses the box towards Lance.

No longer in the cramped bunk, Keith takes a moment to stretch, back cracking satisfyingly. He finds his boxers on the floor and slips them on.

Lance makes a noise, and automatically Keith goes over to retrieve the tissue box and put it back in its place. While Keith begins the search for his clothes, lost somewhere to the mess of Lance's side of the room, Lance starts to snuggle under his sheets, burrowing into his bed. It's a habit, Keith has noticed.

“Hey,” Lance says, leaning up on his elbow to watch Keith look for his jeans. Keith glances over at the sound of Lance's voice, narrowly avoiding running into a chair as he reaches for his pants, which are splayed across Lance's desk, somehow. He lets his gaze travel over the way the sheets drape elegantly over Lance's frame, teasing and tempting even in a post-coital haze.

Keith blinks. “What?”

Lance bites his lip. Keith watches. “Stay?” Lance asks.

Keith blinks again. Something pinches in his chest. It's sharp and vicious, and then gone. “I have Mechanics homework to get done,” Keith tells him, and then turns back to pulling his jeans on over his feet. He plucks his shirt off the floor and tugs it over his head.

“Oh,” says Lance, and that's it.

“Bye,” Keith says as he grabs his shoes and slips out of Lance's dorm.

Lance doesn't answer. If Keith had to guess, he'd probably already fallen asleep.

It's all just fun.

 

What ruins it, as usual, is that Keith knows Lance too well. But starting there wouldn't really be starting at the beginning. The beginning of the end.

They—five out of their usual seven because Shiro and Pidge had work to get done—are tucked into the corner booth in some club near campus. It's filled with college students and the sting of alcohol and the tang of bad decisions on the back of Keith's tongue. Allura is pressed against his side, her long hair spilling over his shoulder and into his lap, where he's being very careful not to spill any of the drink he's nursing because Allura will kill him if he does. Across the booth, Matt, Lance, and Hunk are arguing about.... Something.

Keith takes another sip of his drink, watching them. Before he can set it down, Allura plucks it from his hand and downs the rest of it. So much for that.

“I'm telling you, Malcolm Reynolds is superior,” Matt is saying.

“Okay, first of all,” Lance huffs indignantly. “You know for a fact that Kaylee is the best character so why even argue, and secondly—” He brandishes his phone in front of Matt. “Nyma just voted Vader, so that's two-to-one.

“Hunk?” Matt asks.

“You're both missing the point,” Hunk says. “The Doctor—”

“No.”

“Wait, wait, he might be on to something... _Which one_?”

“Dancing?” Allura interrupts before they all get into it. “Come on, Keith, let's at least spare ourselves.”

Keith snorts. “You can be just as bad as them.” But he lets Allura tug him by the wrist into the mass of gyrating bodies, poorly timed to some deep bass note. Matt and Lance crawl out of the booth after them while Hunk settles back into his seat with his phone screen illuminating his face, likely writing an essay on why he was right in the previous conversation.

Keith loses Allura almost instantly, only her fleeting warmth reminding him she was there at all.

 

There's fleeting gazes, metaphorical fluttered eyelashes passes between ghost touches of fingertips.

Keith ends up dancing next to a handsome boy. Blond—dyed, but forgivable—bit taller, loose tank top to show of lots of skin. The boy's fingers are dancing, too, over Keith's ribs through his t-shirt, curling at his hips, brushing over his arms and thighs. It's a familiar routine, and Keith lets familiarity take over him.

At least until he turns to grind back against the boy and finds himself face-to-face with Lance.

His expression is neutral, if a little bit tense. His hands on Keith's shoulders make him still, and the boy behind him disappears into the crowd with an indignant noise.

Lance leans close, voice low near Keith's ear. “Let's get out of here.”

And Keith agrees instantly, because of course he does. Between going home with a stranger and going home with Lance—the choice is always obvious.

 

Keith slips through the front door into his apartment, peering through the entryway into the dim living room, illuminated only by the light spilling in through the entryway. Lance hovers at his shoulder.

“Shiro?” Keith calls. He waits. “You here?”

The darkness answers back.

“Nice,” Keith says. Flicking on the lights, he waltzes in with all the grace of someone completely comfortable in their own skin and just a little bit drunk. “Must still be at the Holts',” he informs Lance.

Keith digs his phone out of his pocket. A text from Shiro. “Okay... correction: staying over at the Holts'.”

“Right,” Lance mumbles, and before Keith can turn to him, Lance's arms are wrapping around Keith's waist. He tugs them together, pulling Keith against his chest, mixing the warmth of their bodies like a well-memorized recipe.

Keith waits for the usual move—where Lance brushes the hair on Keith's neck out of the way and bites down onto the junction of his shoulder, followed by a slow press of lips—but it doesn't come.

And that's exactly how he knows something is up.

Part of him wants to forget it. Part of him wants to grind back against Lance, get him hard and needy and crying out Keith's name. Part of him wants to take what he came for without any regard for feelings because feelings aren't part of the deal. The rules were written to avoid feelings, to eliminate the obligation of worrying about each other.

But this has nothing to do with sex, and everything to do with the fact Keith has spent the last year and a half learning Lance. Not only memorizing the curves of his body but also the facets of his heart. This is Keith being a friend above all else.

Keith turns in Lance's arms, letting the other hold him tight, still. Lance rests his cheek against Keith's head. Keith brings his arms up, places them over the planes of Lance's shoulder blades, and pulls him close.

They stay like that for a few minutes. Resting. Relaxing? Remembering, maybe. But the silence from Lance is making Keith anxious, and he lifts his head from Lance's shoulder.

“Hey—”

Lance's lips land on his. His fingers cling onto Keith's shirt, tugging uselessly while his mouth is an insistent, desperate press against Keith's own. Keith feels the backs of his knees bump against the couch armrest.

He pushes Lance away.

The logical part of him explains it: last time they fell over the side of the couch, Lance slammed his head into Keith's chin and made him bite his lip, which was kinda hot, maybe, but mostly just painful.

But his heart says: something is wrong.

Keith watches him for a beat. “What's going on with you?”

Lance blinks, once, slow, like a man coming out of a dream. “What do you mean?”

“I know you, Lance. Something's going on.”

“Do you?” Lance asks quietly, staring. “Know me?”

Keith's brow furrows. “Of course I—”

“Because I think if you did, then you'd be able to tell.”

Keith lets the words settle over him for a moment. “...tell what?”

Lance's stare turns hard. Just a little bit cruel. Mostly hurt. “Exactly.”

“Lance, I don't know what you're talking about. What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” Lance bites out, too quick. Then, soft: “Everything.”

Concern tugs in Keith's bones. “Tell me.”

Lance's gaze pries Keith open, places his heart on display for all to judge. Lance's lip trembles as he draws in a careful breath. “I think I'm in love with you.”

Keith feels his breath catch. A heartbeat—two. And instead of saying anything, anything to make this better, or even instead of saying nothing at all, Keith blurts, “You can't be.”

Lance blinks at him, surprise coloring his features before anything else. Anger follows, twisting hatred into the curve of Lance's brow. “Fuck you,” he spits. “As if you know anything about feelings. I don't know what I expected.” He turns towards the door.

Keith reaches for Lance's wrist. “Wait, Lance, I...” He bites his lip. Words die on his tongue.

“What?” Lance bites out. He doesn't turn to look at Keith, even when the silence echoes around them. “Yeah, that's what I thought. You don't have anything to say, so drop it. I can't do this anymore. The deal is off. I'm too close and I need to just...” His voice fades into something vulnerable. “...get over you.”

Keith presses his lips together.

“Night, Keith. Just... Just forget anything happened. It'll be back to normal tomorrow, I promise. Just without the sex. Sorry.”

The sound of the door closing is the first bite of something truly painful between Keith's ribs.

Because the deal was meant to protect against hurt feelings when someone didn't want to deal with pleasantries. The rules were meant to make things easier, to avoid the obligation of hospitality when they both knew they only wanted sex. They were meant to guard against feeling too little.

But they did nothing to protect from feeling too much.

 

Keith knew it didn't matter. The pinch in his chest lasted longer this time, but that didn't matter either. After he broke off the arrangement, Lance sulked for a few days, as he did with every other rejection. Keith has seen his fair share during the time they were fucking. Lance didn't care about feelings. He cared about _feeling_ , the ache of pounding hips and heated breath and electric touch. But as with every other time, he got over it. By the fourth day, he was back to normal.

And that's how Keith knew for sure: he didn't matter.

 

Lance no longer sits next to Keith in Thermo. Which is fine except that now Keith is exceptionally bored because Thermo is literally the worst course in the entire Aerospace Engineering degree plan.

As he walks into class a week later, Keith catches sight of Lance sitting a few rows ahead, next to someone with long, stark-white hair. Lance has his hand planted on the others' knee, leaning close with a hint of smirk on his face.

Determinedly, Keith turns away. His limbs want to lock up, but he forces through it—goes to his seat. Stubbornly, he refuses to look anywhere except the front of the room, where his professor is reviewing engine efficiencies for their upcoming final in about two weeks.

He doesn't matter.

Lance doesn't matter. It doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't—

Matter.

 

When finals roll around for Keith's second fall semester, he's far more prepared to face the onslaught than last year. This time, he actually has a friend group to rely on. He, Hunk, and Lance meet up every night for the four days before their Mechanics final, all crouched around a table in Hunk and Lance's dorm because even though it's finals and everyone is dying, Hunk, one of the RAs, is still on-call, and has to stay in the dorm.

Which limits their study space.

Unfortunately, that also means the space is achingly familiar. Keith avoids going into their room at all costs, claiming it's better to study in a space with less distractions, even though they've worked in Lance and Hunk's room and been fine every time before.

It's an excuse, and he knows it.

But he doesn't know what it's an excuse _for_.

 

After their Mechanics final, Keith doesn't see Lance for another week. Keith and Shiro take turns doing fast-food runs, because they're both drowning in work, Shiro even moreso because he has grad research shit to do on top of finals.

At one point, Shiro walks into their shared apartment with four times the amount of food either of them could possibly eat. Keith glances up from his studying to gape at Shiro.

“I'm gonna try to OD on chicken nuggets,” Shiro announces, and then walks into the kitchen.

Keith just stares after him.

 

When it's all over, Keith lets himself finally breathe again.

Shiro did not OD on chicken nuggets, and did indeed manage to survive his own finals hell.

Lance comes over to give Shiro and Keith a hug each before he flies back to Cuba for winter break, promising to bring them homemade food when he comes back in January.

Hunk stops by a couple days later, since he's required to stay until all the residents in his dorm are gone. He drops off food that his moms brought, which is a welcome change from all the fast food for the past two weeks. Between Keith and Shiro, they finish it in about a day and a half, even though there was probably way too much for that to be physically possible.

Keith spends winter break either watching Netflix with Shiro, or watching Netflix with any mixture of Matt, Allura, and Pidge, who share an apartment a couple blocks over and regularly crash at Keith and Shiro's for the sake of companionship.

At some point, Coran, the professor Shiro and Matt are researching with, comes over and tells them some outrageous stories from his time backpacking in the Amazons. Occasionally, he also tells funny tidbits he somehow remembers from DMing their DND group, which includes everyone in their friend group except Keith. He just never got into it much.

(Technically, Pidge is too busy to dedicate consistent hours to DND, but they do occasionally fill in for Coran DMing, so whether they're included is up for debate.)

What he does know is that Shiro's character has a bionic arm, which should be cool except that Shiro just makes him sad most of the time. Because that's what you do to characters you love, apparently. Keith isn't sure he sees the appeal.

Not to mention, Lance has determinedly decided that Keith's DND character would be some sort of ninja or something, and has attached the nickname _Samurai_ to him with absolutely no basis. Keith isn't sure if samurais even exist in DND worlds, but he doesn't know enough to argue, and Lance is a stubborn little shit, and—he's not thinking about Lance right now.

So instead he listens to Coran's funny retellings: like that timeMatt's character accidentally seduced a dragon and Coran had to rework half the planned campaign to account for the fact that A) the dragon miniboss was beat in one roll and B) the party now had a pet dragon which could, in theory, quote: “ _Fuck shit up._ ”

Overall? It's a good break.

Peaceful. Blissful.

Ignorant.

 

He sees Lance for the first time in over a month on the first day of classes: chatting with a blond girl in their shared US History course. At the time they'd registered (back in... October, maybe, however long ago that was) Keith and Lance had planned to try and get as many classes together so the could study together, pool resources and all that.

Now it almost feels spiteful for some reason.

Lance waves at Keith as he walks into the room, and Keith makes his way over.

“Babe,” Lance says, and Keith freezes. It takes him a moment to realize he's talking to the girl standing next to him. “This is Keith.”

“Nice to meet you! I'm Nyma.”

Mechanically, Keith shakes her offered hand with a nod.

“Sorry about him,” Lance says colloquially, putting his arm around Nyma. His eyes stay trained on Keith. His mouth quirks up into a smile. “He doesn't like people. Nothing personal.”

“Right,” Keith croaks out. “I'm gonna—”

“Hey, sit with us!” Nyma says. “I want to meet Lance's friends.”

“Right,” Keith repeats.

Lance is staring at him, an eyebrow quirked.

Keith swallows the lump in his throat as he drops his stuff into the empty seat next to Lance.

“You good?” Lance asks.

Deflect. He knows how Lance works. Knows how to play him.

Finding his voice, he finally manages: “How was Cuba?”

“Oh, man, it was—”

Safe.

 

If Keith thought the pinch in his chest when he broke off the arrangement was painful, then the stab of something vile between his ribs when he saw Lance with Nyma was what it felt like to face death and keep walking.

He didn't matter. Keith didn't matter.

But Lance did. Lance mattered. Lance still matters, and Keith's heart know it.

 

The full realization hits him while the five of them—Keith, Pidge, Hunk, Lance, and _Nyma—_ are together, all squished into Lance and Hunk's dorm room. Pidge has their feet propped against the wall, head hanging off the edge of the top bunk bed, eyes closed and making soft pained noises because something something operating systems computer things. Hunk is staring at them with a concerned expression from where he's sitting in the desk chair, spinning back and forth idly, because Hunk tends to fidget.

Lance is settled on the lower bunk, pressed into the corner, long legs that Keith knows are smooth underneath his joggers splayed out, one hanging lazily off the edge. Nyma is tucked into his side, hand curled protectively at on his thigh as he chatters on about some recent movie and Keith pretends he's following the conversation instead of falling in love.

Nyma's head cocks softly to the side, ultimately resting against Lance's shoulder. “Keith?” she asks sweetly. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Keith says, deadpan. He drags his gaze away from Lance to stare at the textbook in his lap. He feels the slightest bit dizzy—not enough to make his vision swim, but enough to make his heart stutter.

Something hot curls in his gut, and it reminds him of arousal. Of drawn-out moans, of bruised kiss-bitten skin, of the fluttering of his heart he thought was merely the heat of the moment.

Until now.

Because now that fluttering turns to knives, butterflies with their razor-wings slicing at the inside of his ribcage.

 

The first time it happens, Keith thinks nothing of it. It's casual; it's a simple echo; a reiterated, mechanical “Love you, Babe.”

But Keith forgets his qualms about the lilt of Lance's voice in the next moment because he's too busy staring at the movement of Lance's lips, remembering their touch on his own, on his skin, whispering against the warmth of Keith's neck.

 

The second time, Keith pays more attention. It's still an echo, still the default response, but Keith hears it for what it really is this time: fake.

His brow furrows, watching as Lance gives Nyma that sweet smile, paired with a “I love you, too,” as Nyma flits off to her next class, leaving Lance and Keith to walk out of US History together.

Keith doesn't know what it is, but he can tell Lance isn't—there isn't any weight behind the words—he doesn't mean it—

He's lying.

Keith's stomach churns unpleasantly. So Lance broke it off with him because he couldn't deal with having feelings when Keith didn't? And then he turns around and pulls this shit? The fucking hypocrite.

Does—does he think he's _getting revenge_?

Keith doesn't realize he's stopped following Lance out of the building until Lance turns around, calls his name.

“Are you _using_ Nyma?” Keith blurts out at him.

Lance's brow furrows. He walks the few paces back towards Keith, words coming out in a hiss. “What the fuck? Of course not.”

“You lied to her,” Keith states.

“What?”

“You said you loved her. You're lying.”

“The fuck, Keith?” Lance scoffs. “You know what? I'm not going to—” Lance turns to keep walking away.

Keith latches onto his wrist, yanking him back. “No,” Keith growls. “Why are you faking it? Is it to get back at me?”

“Let go of me—fuck, Keith. It's none of your business—”

“Is it?” Keith insists. “Answer me.”

“It's not some revenge ploy, for Christ's sake. I don't care about you—”

Lance clamps his mouth shut. The words stab through Keith's chest, but—

Keith squints up at Lance. “You're _lying_.”

“ _Fuck off_ ,” Lance hisses vehemently. “Stay out of my shit.”

“I can't believe you,” Keith snarls as Lance wrenches his arm out of Keith's grip. “You're an asshole. You're stringing her along—”

Lance whirls, spitting in his face. “Like you did to me?”

Keith recoils. “I never—”

“Save it, Asshole. Stay out of my life. It's not yours to fuck up anymore.”

“What—”

But Lance is already gone.

Keith leans heavily against the nearest wall, and _breathes_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the radio silence  
> I really tried to get everything out before I left the country for a study abroad but that obviously didn't happen.  
> I'm still writing my KLRBB pieces unfortunately so bear with me for updates, but I promise things will get finished. Hopefully before the semester starts but we'll see if that happens lmaooo  
> I'm a procrastinator at heart it happens shrug emoji

The next time, he hears it in passing. Lance is still pissed. Hell, he's still pissed. He knows to give Lance space, but he's still too stubborn to not be present in his life. Keith determinedly sits in the same row in their US History course, though a few seats over. He ignores the fact that Lance's affectionate words are gratingly fake.

 

Study nights with Hunk, the three of them tucked together in some corner of the library, are weighed with tension.

Hunk must know what's going on—he always knows everything, except somehow the original arrangement was kept secret, so he must not _actually_ know everything. Though, honestly, Keith doesn't know if he cares about secrecy anymore. He just wants someone to shake Lance back into his senses, and if anyone could do that, it's Hunk.

In a sudden spurt of wild, reckless courage, he stands up. “Hunk—”

What the fuck is he doing. That stupid, rash bravery abandons him in the next instant, leaving him scrambling for purchase.

Hunk's staring at him. “Yeah?”

Keith searches for an out. “I—I'm gonna... get coffee. You want something?”

Hunk brightens. “Double chocolate mocha?” he asks hopefully.

“Sure.”

“Lance?” Hunk asks.

Keith's gaze flicks over, deer caught in the headlights.

“I'm good,” Lance says lowly. His gaze in piercing, boring through Keith's chest. He presses his lips together in a thin line, jaw working, and tilts his chin up at Keith in a gesture that is equally smug as it is dismissive.

Swallowing hard, Keith turns to leave, to escape downstairs where there's Starbucks and, in theory, nothing else he can completely fuck up.

 

“You need to make up with Lance,” Pidge deadpans.

Keith's head jerks up from where he has his nose buried in his Dynamics textbook. He should know this already, considering the number of study sessions he's shared with Lance and Hunk, but he's starting to have to face the fact he's using those more as an excuse to see Lance than to actually learn.

“You two need to fuck or something,” Pidge continues nonchalantly. Keith's muscles lock up. “Maybe that'll fix the weird tension.”

“I—I—” Keith stammers out. “What? Why w-would you—”

Pidge peers at him over the top of the textbook perched on their knees. There's something calculating in their gaze that strikes fear into Keith's bones.

But: “I'm just saying,” is what they respond instead of endless accusations. “It's like we're back to freshman year when you hated everything around you.”

“I didn—”

Pidge's gaze turns hard, and Keith promptly clamps his jaw shut.

“Just fix it,” Pidge says. “Before Shiro picks up on—or, well, actually, he probably already knows and is just waiting to see if it blows over before he feels obligated to intervene... Anyway, don't make Shiro have to get into this.”

Keith bites his lip. “Yeah,” he concedes. “Okay.”

Looking back down at his textbook, Keith sighs. He flops it closed. “Do you wanna help me with my computing homework?”

“Not really, no.”

“Pidge.”

“Nope.”

Keith slumps further down into his chair. “Please?”

“Keith, for fuck's sake—”

 

Later that night, Keith is curled under his comforter, phone cradled in his hand. It's only about 10PM, but he's already turned off the lights in his room—partly to deter Shiro from interrupting, but mostly because it doesn't feel quite as intimidating when there's the comforting familiarity of his bed and the soft weight of darkness around him.

He scrolls until he finds Lance's name in his messages, pushed down from where it usually sits close to the top from the lack of contact and strain on their relationship recently.

 _Can I call you_?

Keith sends the message before he can second guess himself. Pidge is right. They need to work this out. Even if the idea of emotional confrontation has Keith's stomach turning over itself.

o _nly if youre gonna apologize_ Lance texts back.

_Yes._

Lance starts and stops typing a couple of times. Then, finally: s _till no_

_Lance please_

_Can I bribe you?_

_I got Pidge to do the computing homework_

Lance starts typing. Stops.

Keith's phones rings in his hands.

“Commence,” Lance orders as soon as Keith answers.

“I'm sorry,” Keith blurts out.

“Oh—wow—” Lance says. “I wasn't actually... I didn't think you were actually telling the truth.”

“Seriously?” Keith tells him. “Why wouldn't I?”

“I... don't know,” Lance admits.

“ _Who's that?_ ” Keith hears in the distance.

“Is that Nyma?”

“Yeah,” Lance answers him first. Then, fainter: “ _It's Keith. I'll be right back._ ”

Keith hears shuffling, and he assumes Lance is moving away from Nyma to talk to him. For some reason, it makes his heart miscount beats, an off-stutter that nearly has him gasping.

“I'm not actually mad at you still,” Lance starts out. His voice cuts a little awkwardly, like he was going to say something else and then decided against it. “So—I... I guess I'm sorry too.”

“No,” Keith says quietly. “You were right. It's none of my business.”

Lance makes a noncommittal noise. “You were right too... Well, kinda. It's not that I _don't_ love Nyma, I just... I don't know.”

“It's okay.” Keith fiddles with the edge of his blanket, pulling closer over his shoulder. “You don't have to explain it to me.”

Lance sighs. “I don't even know how to explain it to myself.”

There's a beat of silence. Keith listens to the faint intake of Lance's breath.

“Sorry,” Lance says. “I don't mean to unload on you.”

“Do you wanna come over tomorrow?” Keith blurts instead of giving a coherent response. “Chill? Smooth things over before we meet up with the group again and ruin the vibe?”

“Uh, excuse you,” Lance says. “I think you mean before _you_ ruin the vibe. Your mullet kills every mood.”

Keith scoffs. “You like my mullet.”

Lance goes quiet for a second. “I have an accounting test tomorrow night.”

“Oh, right. You're doing that business minor thing?”

“Close enough, yeah.” Lance lets out a faint groan. “One of those stupid night tests, when we could be doing it in class.”

“Gross,” Keith sympathizes.

“How about the day after?” Lance offers.

“Sure. Did you ever finish Black Mirror?'

Lance lets out a huff. “Ugh.”

“Come on,” Keith presses. “It's a good show.”

“Yeah,” Lance allows. “But I feel like my brain is imploding every time we watch it.”

“I'll buy pizza.”

“The audacity you have, bribing me like this—speaking of, don't forget to send me the computing homework—but fine. You buy pizza, we'll watch Black Mirror. No fucking pineapple.”

“Half pineapple.”

“ _No pineapple_ , you absolute heathen.”

Keith finds himself laughing. “Fine.” He's definitely still going to get pineapple. Lance will just vehemently pick off it off when he inevitably eats more than half of the pizza and starts encroaching on Keith's half. As always.

“I better get back to work,” Lance says eventually. “Nyma and I were working on the history homework.”

“We have history homework? Fuck.”

Lance's laugh is light. “Not due tomorrow. I'll send it to you.”

“Oh cool,” Keith says. “Thanks.”

“It's only fair,” Lance hums. “Trade for computing.”

“I thought computing was a bribe?”

“I didn't really need to be bribed,” Lance says quietly. “Anyway, bye Keith.”

“Night,” Keith responds.

The call ends, and Keith curls up tighter under his blanket. His world feels like it's spinning, like everything is flying past him while he's at a standstill, and all he can do is watch the beauty of it as it passes.

He's swept away by it.

Swept away by Lance, especially, and he never even realized it until now.

 

“I can't believe he's fucking dead,” Lance says, leaning over the armrest of the couch to pop his back. Keith pauses Netflix before it autoplays the next Black Mirror episode.

“Yeah, not gonna lie, first time I saw that I lost my shit.”

“I think I'm gonna have nightmares,” Lance says.

“Oh, fuck off,” Keith huffs, kicking absently at Lance's shins.

“No, I'm not kidding!” Lance argues. “Look, I have chills!”

“That's because it's winter and Shiro refuses to turn the heat up in here,” Keith says. “Go get a blanket.”

Lance pouts at him.

Keith rolls his eyes. “You know where everything is,” he says, standing. “I'm gonna go piss.”

As Keith slips out of the living room, he hears Lance shuffle around behind him, sounds muffled through a bathroom door.

When Keith finishes up, he emerges into the living room to find Lance is missing. Backtracking, he glances down towards his room, the door cracked open when it's usually shut.

“Lance?” Keith calls, and then the door opens the rest of the way.

Lance leans against the door frame, one hand sliding upwards while the other lands on the hip he cocks out invitingly. He knows how to play up his attractiveness, especially when he's trying to show off, and right now...

“Red looks good on me,” Lance purrs, staring right at Keith. He's wearing Keith's fucking jacket, the cropped style showing off the slim of his waist, the sharp jut of his hips. “Don't you think?”

Keith tries to swallow, but his mouth is dry. “H-holy shit,” he manages, because this is the Lance he knows far, far too well.

This is the Lance that's tempting, that's soft, that fell in love with him and Keith foolishly turned down. This is dangerous territory because Keith is so familiar with it. He knows how he wants to respond—wants to press Lance into the wall, run his hands over his ribs and drag moans from pretty lips. This is what he wants.

This is what he can't have.

Not anymore. He fucked that up.

“Fuck,” Keith gasps out, unintentionally.

Lance starts laughing, doubled over through his chuckles.

Keith still can't catch his breath.

Because this Lance is also full of kindness, of laughter and teasing words veiling how much he cares. This is the Lance that Keith has known even before the friends with benefits thing started up. This is the Lance that Keith took for granted. This is the Lance that he's falling in love with.

“The... look on... your face,” Lance wheezes. “God—” He finally manages to get himself under control, though the occasional giggle still breaks through. “Okay, I'll put it...” Another quiet laugh. “...Back.”

“No,” Keith blurts. His words sound distant to his own ears. “Go ahead.”

Lance blinks at him.

“I, uh... want the blanket from the bed anyway,” Keith adds.

Lance's eyes widen, and then narrow. “Not fair!”

“No, you want the jacket, don't you?” Keith quips, slipping past Lance into his room. He ignores the hard thud of his heart against his ribs, hopes Lance can't hear it.

“No, take the jacket back!”

Keith starts pulling the comforter from his bed, gathering it in his arms to take to the living room. “Nope,” he says. Then, quieter: “Besides, you're right... It does look good on you.”

Keith turns to walk by Lance again, only to find Lance staring at him. His eyes narrow, slightly, as if trying to figure Keith out. Like he's an engineering problem that can be solved with the right equation.

But before Lance can figure it out—before he can make the right assumptions, find the right approximation, apply the right solving technique—the sound of the front door of the apartment opening interrupts them.

The moment is gone. Keith sneaks past Lance while he's distracted and dumps the comforter onto the couch where he was sitting.

“Jesus, it's cold in here,” Shiro announces from the entryway.

Keith pins him with a deadened stare. “Huh,” he says dryly. “I wonder why?”

Shiro squints at him, then his gaze flicks away. “Oh, hi, Lance.”

“Hey Shiro.”

“What are you two up to?”

“Black Mirror,” Keith explains, planting himself on the comforter before Lance can dive on the couch and steal it from him.

Lance still goes for it, trying to tug the blanket out from under Keith's weight. Keith swats at Lance's grabby hands while folding the comforter around himself.

Shiro watches them for a moment. “You know, you could _share_.”

“No,” Keith and Lance say at the same time.

Shiro sighs. He says something that sounds suspiciously like “children.”

“I'll get a spare,” Shiro says as he heads towards his bedroom.

But by the time he gets back, Keith and Lance are both snuggled under the comforter, already on the next episode.

Shiro gapes at Keith. Keith sticks his tongue out at Shiro.

Ultimately, he caves; settles himself in the armchair, blanket wrapped around him; and watches Netflix with them until some ungodly hour of the night.

It's past midnight when Lance finally determines he has to go home. Shiro offers for Lance to stay the night, taking Shiro's bed and leaving Shiro on the couch. Ironic, Keith thinks, when there's been so many times that he and Lance have shared a bed together. One more would be nothing, but things are different now.

“Seriously, it's fine,” Lance says, heading for the entryway. The apartment is dark, illuminated only by the kitchen light and the TV.

“Well, I'm going to sleep then,” Shiro says. “Night, Lance.”

“G'night, Shiro,” Lance replies. He reaches for the front door, and gets halfway out of the apartment and halfway out of Keith's jacket before he lets out a displeased hiss. “Damn, it's colder than I thought.”

“Just take the jacket,” Keith says. The words drop from his lips, unbidden, but there they are, waiting on the floor for Lance's response.

One of Lance's eyebrows quirk up. “You sure? Isn't this, like, your favorite jacket?”

“It's fine,” Keith says quietly. “I trust you.”

Lance stares at him. Keith thinks he sees Lance's cheeks darken, but in the dim of the entryway, Keith can't be sure.

Lance shrugs the jacket back up on his shoulders.

“Thanks, Keith,” he says, and the name slips like honey over Lance's tongue. Keith is fucking melting.

“Night,” Keith croaks out.

“Night,” Lance says, and the smile on his lips is painted behind Keith's eyelids, where it stays until he's in bed, slipping from consciousness to impossible dreams where that same smile is for Keith and Keith alone. Where Lance is his.

This is bad. Really bad.

 

Things go back to… almost normal. Keith and Lance fall back into place with each other. The strain is gone, replaced by a different sort of tension that Keith feels prickling over his skin and crackling in his bones. It’s something almost reminiscent of their first interactions–something just a little bit electric under the sharp bite of their own insecurities.

Keith actually begins to wonder: is he good enough?

After their radio silence, Keith and Lance resume their usual interactions. There’s the light teasing between classes; the simple _good morning_ texts when Lance goes to class at the ungodly hour of 10AM (after Keith has been awake for _two hours_ ) and is instantly bored; the less frequent late night talks until equally ungodly hours of the night.

Lance hasn’t decided what’s up with Nyma. He seems happy, Keith eventually gathers, and he’ll have to be content with that. Because it’s not his place, not… _He’s not in love with Lance_ , his brain carefully lies each time he hears Lance’s laughter or the caress of his lips around Keith’s name. _He’s not in love with Lance_ , as if his heart would believe anything but exact opposite of whatever his head says is best for both of them.

But regardless of his feelings, it’s definitely not Keith’s place to get between Lance and Nyma. Even if Lance still hasn’t told her that he loves her with a ounce of truth in his tone. Even if she hasn’t picked up on it yet. Even if Lance’s gaze lingers on Keith more than either of them know is good. Even if Keith knows she’s not right for him. He can’t butt in, it’s not his place–

Yet, somehow, Nyma must read him.

Because not only has _he_ not seen Lance for the past month outside of classes, but neither has the rest of their friend group.

It becomes apparent when Allura calls for a night out. Something about celebrating a score on one of her law exams, and Lance instantly declines.

Except that Allura doesn’t take shit from anyone, least of all Lance, and if she’s going to celebrate something then she’s going to make everyone else celebrate it too.

There’s a flurry of half-hearted excuses from Lance in the groupchat, some of which make exactly zero sense. Allura ignores all of them in favor of: _i’m cming ovr in 10 b rdy 2 go_

Which takes about as much time deciphering into coherent sentences as one might expect. Matt seems to have Allura’s cipher memorized, but the rest of the group always has to ask for second opinions when she texts one of them.

Lance sends a series of keysmashes in quick, successive, response.

And maybe Keith feels a little bit bad for him. Maybe because he knows Lance isn’t at 100% right now. Maybe because he’s falling in love.

_How come you don’t want to go?_

There’s about a 30 second wait until Lance replies. _Nyma doesnt want me goin out_

_Bullshit._

_It’s just fun,_ Keith continues. _Besides, it’s for Allura. You don’t think she’d allow for that?_

Then, finally: _I haven’t hung out with you in, what, a month? I’m pretty sure you haven’t been out with the others either._

Lance starts typing. Stops. Starts again. Pauses. _yeah you right i guess its fine_.

 

Which is how they end up here, with music pounding loud enough to make their heartbeats stutter to the beat of drums, with Allura buying everyone shots despite the fact that Lance and Pidge are still underage except that no one needs to know that, with Keith not being able to drag his gaze away from the strip of skin at Lance’s waist revealed by his crop top.

Here's the thing about Lance: at some point before going into freshman year of college, he decided that the best way to dodge his insecurities was to overplay his confidence. He'd come off as cocky, obnoxious, just a bit too over-the-top. It was what had caused the tension early on in his and Keith's relationship.

But with the maturity that comes with living on one's own, with being an at least vaguely functioning adult, with responsibility and freedom, Lance had grown into that cocky smirk and confident gait.

He went from annoying to unbelievable attractive.

Keith has to admit it, now, as he snags a sip of Shiro's drink—something strong enough to shock his system but not enough to throw him off-balance—that perhaps it's his fault that they started the agreement in the first place. That maybe he'd pined for Lance's casual haughtiness and subsequently fallen for it long, long ago.

But then he sees Lance, dancing close to Allura with his hands on her hips and matching the beat perfectly with his own, and Keith thinks: _who could blame him for falling in love_ _?_

 

They end up together at the bar, somehow. Somehow—because Keith thinks Lance is possibly avoiding him, but it might just be that he's used to Lance being all over him. He's used to being all over Lance.

Lance settles down on the barstool next to Keith, flags down the bartender with a velvet voice.

“Startin' to become a real regular,” she comments with a wink.

“You've been here recently?” Keith asks after the bartender walks away to get Lance's water.

“Uh,” Lance says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah...”

“You didn't invite any of us?”

“Well, not exactly... Hunk came.”

Keith bristles. “You brought _Hunk_ but didn't bother to ask me?”

Lance and Hunk may have been friends since high school, but even Keith knows Hunk likes clubbing less than Keith. Hunk doesn't like the air of it—too sleazy, he's said before—but Keith thrives on the mystery, the give-and-take.

“Nyma...” Lance protests weakly. He coughs awkwardly into his fist. “Let's go dance?”

“Lance,” Keith huffs. He follows Lance towards the crowds, because he doesn't really have a choice if he wants to have a chance at getting his two cents in.

“What?” Lance says, a little snappish.

“You said it wasn't my place—”

Lance slides between two gyrating bodies. He reaches for Keith, pulling him in, and rolls his body so he's barely pressing close. He leans towards Keith, hissing in his ear. “It's really not.”

Someone jostles past Keith, and he nearly stumbles, catching himself on Lance's shoulders.

“What you get for not dancing,” Lance snorts.

Keith glares up at him through his bangs, feeling just a tad resentful. He rights himself, slips his hands down Lance's shoulders, curling his fingers into Lance's hips.

There's a soft gasp of noise from Lance, mostly surprise, as Keith flips him around, grinding against Lance just enough to bring memories to the surface.

“Why does Nyma hate me?” Keith hisses in Lance's ear.

“You wanna play that way?” Lance growls back. He reaches over his head, threading his fingers in Keith's hair to keep his head perched over Lance's shoulder. Lance dips low, pushing his ass right onto Keith's half-hard dick.

“ _Why_ _?_ ” Keith insists, though his voice comes out a little to breathy too be intimidating.

“Why do you think?” Lance tugs on his hair, makes Keith's knees feel weak.

“I don't know!”

Lance lets go and turns around in Keith's grip. He stares at Keith's angry gaze, and then his eyes flick blatantly down to Keith's lips. Keith's hands still rest at Lance's waist—at least until Lance subtly nudges them lower.

“Why could she _possibly_ not like you?”

Keith's gaze narrows. “Does she _know_?”

Lance scoffs. “Of course not,” he says, and his voice drops low. “But she knows you're dangerous.”

One of Keith's eyebrows shoot up. He's trading his anger for arousal, as Lance's eyes glint in dark down at him. “Am I?”

Lance scoffs. He presses close, manages to slip his thighs around one of Keith's legs, and yeah, that's definitely Lance's cock grinding down—

That's definitely Lance moaning into Keith's ear.

That's definitely Lance, sliding his hand up the nape of Keith's neck, nudging his hair out of the way so that his neck is bared.

Definitely Lance ghosting his lips over the skin of Keith's collarbone.

“What do you think?” Lance purrs against his skin. “We've done this dance already, Samurai.”

Keith lets out a choked groan, too aroused to be mad about the nickname. “You're making it really hard not to kiss you senseless.”

“I think we both know I want way more than that,” Lance counters, nipping at Keith's shoulder.

“Holy shit,” Keith breathes. He closes his eyes, tips his head back, and prays for forgiveness as Lance presses a soft kiss on his neck. Then, he jolts into movement, nudging at Lance's shoulders and grasping for his hand. “Come with me.”

“Yeah?' Lance says, sultry, as Keith tugs him through the crowds and towards the shitty club bathrooms.

“Yeah.” Keith tells him.

They nearly run into someone exiting the bathroom, but once they awkwardly slip past, they're alone, thankfully.

Keith drags Lance to the last stall, locks it, and then he's pushing Lance against the stall door, his mouth an insistent press against Lance's lips.

Lance tastes like alcohol, like sweat. That's nothing new; they've hooked up at bars before, gone home drunk and fucked each other into the mattress only to wake up tangled and gross and hungover.

But there's something new, too: the taste of the knowledge that _Keith missed this_.

Lance's tongue slides into Keith's mouth with ease, practiced. He runs his tongue along Keith's, maps out the roof of his mouth, the shape of his canines. Keith's hands slide down Lance's body, one eventually gripping onto his hip, the other stroking over Lance's dick through his pants.

Lance breaks away with a soft gasp. Keith takes the chance to press a kiss to Lance's jaw, nips the skin there in retaliation for earlier. He leans close, still letting Lance rut gently against the satisfying pressure of palm of his hand. “Think you can be quiet?”

Lance nods eagerly, too busy chasing pleasure, and maybe a tiny bit too drunk, to care about trying to be suave.

“Good,” Keith tells him. “Good boy.”

And then he drops to his knees.

By the time Lance catches up with what's happening, Keith's already gotten his pants undone and shoved out of the way.

Lance lets outs a choked noise as Keith pulls his underwear down, lets Lance's cock spring forward into his hand.

“Quiet, right?” Keith reminds him. He leans down and licks over the head of Lance's cock.

There's a whimper that cuts off. Keith sides his lips over the head of Lance's dick and glances up to find Lance gazing down at him and biting into his knuckles to keep from making noise.

Keith pulls off again. “Good boy,” he praises again. “So good for me.”

Lance's breath hitches, but he tamps down whatever noise wants to drag from his chest.

“Tell me,” Keith says, letting his breath cool the tip of Lance's cock, where precum is beading out and making Keith's mouth water. “Does Nyma go down on you as good as I do?”

All the air punches out of Lance's lungs, and Keith keeps a steady movement until Lance hits the back of his throat. He forces his gag reflex into submission, slides down until his nose presses into the curls of hair on Lance's pelvis.

This time, since he knows it's the last: he's going to savor it, to do it right.

Keith feels something against his cheek as he swallows around Lance's cock. Lance's fingers dust carefully over Keith's cheekbone, wiping away the remnants of a tear track that Keith hadn't even noticed. Keith looks up at him, gaze hazy, and tries to memorize the image for forever: Lance's fond expression and the way his thighs shake, like he's already so close.

Keith runs his tongue along the underside of Lance's dick, pressing as he starts a gentle pace. Keith bobs his head down, hollows his cheeks. Pulls back, teasingly slow, and swirls his tongue over the head of Lance's cock. Lance's stomach sucks in as he gasps at the sensitivity.

His fingers thread through Keith's hair, movements slow and lazy, like he's doing it without thinking. It's natural to him, Keith suspects. Perhaps, perhaps, that this is how they're meant to be—

The grip of Lance's fingers tighten, just enough to drag the spark of nerves down Keith's spine, and Keith groans as he swallows Lance down.

For a moment—this one, right here, where he's running his tongue along the underside of Lance's dick, the taste of him stained on the back of his throat—Keith revels in the fact Lance wants him. _Wants_ him. No one else, not when Keith is digging his fingers into Lance's hips hard enough to bruise, to remember, and humming around Lance's cock in his mouth.

For a moment, Keith pretends this is how they will always be.

Tomorrow, Lance will—well, regret isn't quite the right word. But Keith will have proven him right, proven Nyma right. That he's dangerous. And Lance will retreat from the reality of their tattered relationship because honestly, if Keith was in his position, that's what he would do, too.

But now, he pretends everything is fine. That Lance is his, that his affection is returned, that this isn't goodbye.

Lance tugs gently on Keith's hair, a warning, but Keith holds Lance's hips in place, stubbornly—always stubbornly, but never again—stays in place, and swallows the bitter taste of Lance's cum with equally bitter emotions.

But he swallows those down, too.

He pulls off, wipes the drool off his mouth with his sleeve They're both breathing hard. Keith stares at Lance, watching as he slowly drags his hand down his face with a soft groan. Keith swallows the lump in his throat, decides the roughness of his voice, the look on Lance's face, this last time—everything, all of it, worth it. Lance is always worth it.

“There,” Keith says, smirking up at him.

Lance wheezes out a soft questioning noise and glances down at Keith. “What?”

“Give Nyma a _real_ reason to hate me,” Keith drawls. He picks himself up off the floor, knees aching, heart sated, at least until Lance decides he hates him the next morning.

He reaches for the door. Lance's hand on his wrist stops him.

“You—” Lance starts, pauses awkwardly. “Your turn?”

Keith's eyebrows shoot questioningly up. “There's no longer a deal,” he says. He licks his lips, where he still tastes Lance, and pries Lance's fingers off his wrist. “No rules. You don't owe me any favors.”

“Wait...” Lance breathes out. “Wh... why?”

But Keith has already slipped out of the stall, back into the club.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao none of this is proofed despite being 8 months late
> 
> me, writing vld fic in the year twenty nineteen?? more likely than you think. i did promise i'd finish this fucker.

It's like she knows.

Keith is sure she doesn't, but his own words echo in his head.

The minute Keith walks into US History, Nyma forcefully flops her backpack into Keith's usual seat. He approaches cautiously. Lance won't meet his gaze.

He sits two rows behind them, watching Nyma take turns side-eyeing him and whispering into Lance's ear.

Over the hour of lecture, Lance sinks lower and lower in his chair.

 

So Keith ruined everything. Again.

He expected this, to some degree, but drunk on alcohol and love, it didn't quite hit him how much it would hurt.

Lance won't talk to him in anything except timid little answers to direct questions. The very, very occasional tease—and then he remembers what's happened between them at retreats back into himself.

At some point during one of their study sessions, Pidge looks across Keith at the table, then looks pointedly at Lance, before their gaze flicks accusing back to Keith.

Keith stares back, expression pleading, because at this point, he's lost. He has no idea what to do with Lance, no idea what to do with himself.

He's lost between wanting to act on his feelings and respecting the fact that as soon as he _had,_ Lance became the most distant he's ever been with Keith.

Even when they'd first met—

But that was then.

And this is now, as Keith announces he's going to go grab snacks. Hunk and Pidge each input their respective request, but Lance...

Lance just watches him, stares at him with blue, blue eyes, and Keith is nothing more than what he sees in Lance's gaze: conflicted.

 

Keith has never been one to cry, especially over boys.

Lance is no exception to that rule.

But _damn_ if his entire body doesn't ache with the force of holding back tears.

It's in little glimpses of Lance's life with Nyma. He catches sight of them in their friend group's usual haunt for caffeine doses, Lance bringing two drinks to a table next to the window, settling across from Nyma with a fond smile across his lips. Nyma's grin is as sweet as Lance's favorite drink.

Lance bails on study groups with Keith and Hunk more and more often. At first, there's a couple of legitimate reasons, other obligations or planned dates with Nyma. Which is fine. But now, Keith walks into their usual study room to find Hunk waiting alone. Hunk watches Keith, gaze too-knowing, teeth sunk into his bottom lip as if he can prevent the questions from spilling out if he doesn't let go. Other times he just stares at Keith, brow furrowed, pouting, as if Keith's a complicated truss problem that he can solve if he only thinks long enough.

Keith can tell Hunk wants to pry. He's grateful for the fact he manages to hold himself back. Or maybe Lance already told him everything. But Keith suspects Hunk wouldn't be talking to Keith at all if that was the case, so Hunk's probably in the dark.

Shiro asks him, one night over dinner of boxed macaroni and cheese and canned green beans, what happened between him and Lance.

Keith shrugs. Tells him that nothing happened.

Because that's what it all was supposed to be: nothing. It was supposed to mean _nothing_.

Yet somehow it's consumed them, this nothing, ate away at not only any chances at romance, but also encroached upon their friendship, chipped away until there was nothing left but the dust of companionship remaining.

Yeah. Nothing happened between them.

 

Keith has always been a soldier.

Growing up, it was facing foster homes without a complaint. It was clutching onto a ratty stuffed hippo and trekking onward, until a new family. It was struggling to catch up in each new school, because the classes never lined up but he was determined because knowledge sustained him. It was powering through college applications pretty much on his own, using money from the local bike shop to pay for them.

It was getting the only acceptance letter that mattered—because finally, _finally_ , he'd get to meet Shiro, the friend he'd known online for years, the man who is the reason he's standing where he is today.

Now, it's pushing away the drama of falling in love with Lance in favor of being an emotionless college zombie amid finals season.

 

This is how they end.

 

Summer creeps ever closer with little fanfare. After finals, Shiro takes off to do research at a partner branch of their university. Close enough he could visit if he absolutely wanted to, but far enough away to make the trip a hassle. Pidge, Matt, Hunk, and Lance head home. Allura has a summer internship in Europe. Which leaves Keith and Coran staying near campus.

It's fine. The group chat is bustling with everyone's summer plans, but Keith mostly ignores it unless someone asks him something directly. Namely: if he can watch Rover while the Holt family goes on vacation. Which may or may not be against the apartment rules, but it's only a week so it's probably fine.

He's not lonely, not really.

A little bit broken, maybe.

For a few days, he lets himself recover from the brutality of the semester. He sleeps, mostly. Takes Rover out for walks, cuddles with him afterwards while watching TV. Wallows a little for Lance, because that's what you do when you fuck up with the boy you realize you've fallen in love with.

But eventually the restlessness begins to eat at him. Even spending the day with Pidge and Matt when they come to pick up Rover doesn't stave off the nervous energy. He hears Shiro's voice in the back of his head, ever the do-what-I-say-not-what-I-do-responsible-adult that echoes Keith should be working on stuff.

So he revamps his resume. Researches some potential internships, though he knows it's far too late to get anything done this summer. Gets stupidly nerd-distracted by flow around plane wings for a while and spends a few days dorking out about that and online stalking one of the fluid mechanics professors on campus.

He reads. There's a pile of books people have recommended to him that have been sitting on his shelf since last October. He finishes off random Netflix shows that he and Lance had started and never finished. Spends another day feeling sorry for himself after that. Rewatches the _Princess Bride_ because he misses Shiro a bit and it's Shiro's favorite movie. Ends up watching it again when he rabbits it with Shiro.

Finally, about three weeks into summer vacation, he finally gets stir-crazy enough to go back to campus. There's nothing there for him, really, since he's not taking summer classes and he doesn't really have any projects to work on or anything. At the very least, though, it's a change of scenery, and there's grass walkway there that is usually prime for between-class naps. It should be practically empty now, so Keith grabs his phone and a cup of coffee and decides he's going to enjoy a rare moment on campus that's actually peaceful.

Except that when he gets there, it's not at all peaceful.

There are kids running all over the field, presumably playing some sort of game—ultimate frisbee, maybe?—and Keith frowns. He hovers at the edge of the grass, not quite willing to give up, but also displeased, so he ends up watching them play for a bit.

On second glance, they don't quite look like kids. Keith had assumed because of the sheer mass of them, but he determines they're probably one of the groups of incoming freshman, here for orientation. Which means he probably would still call them kids because they're fresh out of high school while he's an experienced and wise (and largely exhausted) junior in college.

But at least they look like they're having fun. He absently wonders how many of them are joining his major. Aerospace engineering is competitive. Lance didn't even get in on the first go—had to work his ass off his first semester to get from undeclared engineering to aerospace.

And it must be the thoughts of Lance that play tricks on Keith's eyes, because he swears he sees the man among the swarms chasing the frisbee through the air.

He must be crazy. It has to be that. Lance is home. He isn't here, haunting Keith.

“Hey, foul, FOUL!”

Except that was definitely Lance's voice.

“Piss off, Lance!” someone else shouts back, and then the frisbee soars towards Keith's side of the field.

Which, even Keith, who doesn't even know what game this is, knows is a bad plan, because Lance is _agile_ , be it in water or on land. Keith would know; he's had those legs wrapped around his waist enough times.

He pinpoints the exact moment Lance breaks away from the pack. To Keith's surprise, someone else is keeping up with him—long white hair pulled into a ponytail behind them, and, oddly enough, wearing the same shirt as Lance. They both charge forward, and Lance glances over his shoulder to see the other gaining on him, then as he's turning back, his gaze locks onto Keith.

He fucks up. His pace stutters and, while he doesn't fall, he loses his valuable lead. The pursuant charges ahead, lunging through the air to catch the frisbee and landing harshly on the ground. There's a cheer from the other side of the field, where everyone else still is because they were probably too lazy to give chase.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Lance says, and Keith's not really sure if it's because of him or because the other person who is now laying on his back on the grass, chest heaving.

“Point,” they wheeze.

Lance lets out an indignant squawk, turning his wide eyes away from Keith to argue. “That does _not_ count, Lotor!”

“ _Point_.”

“I was _distracted_ ,” Lance protests.

“Yeah?” Keith hears Lotor say as Lance goes to help him up. “Wanna explain why?”

“I—I—”

But Keith doesn't hear whatever excuse Lance comes up with because he's running away.

 

s _o youre still on campus??_

Keith considers ignoring the text. He shouldn't, and he doesn't, but he definitely considers.

_Yeah._

_do you always stay for summer?_

This is dangerous. This is friendship that Lance hasn't given him for over a month, and it feels terrifyingly easy to fall into. It's too easy.

 _So far, yeah. Might intern next year_.

_cool_

Keith bites his lip. He draws his feet up onto the couch. He could just leave it at that. Dangerous. Dangerous.

 _Why are you here?_ He texts back, instead of shutting down the flicker of hope in his chest.

_I didnt tell you?_

Keith wracks his brain. That, he would think, would be something he'd probably remember. _No?_

_Im an orientation adviser stuck here until august_

Another text comes through before Keith can respond. _I thought I told the group chat_

_Probably. I have it on mute._

_Dammit keith we have it for a reason you cant just ignore it_

_is shiro there too?_

_No. Doing grad research stuff_

_man its keith and lance against the world here_

_And Coran_

_nah coran is in europe with allura you really have been ignoring the group chat jesus_

Keith tries to come up with a retort to that, but he really can't. His fault for not keeping up.

Another text. _We should hang out since were here_

Keith feels his shoulders instinctively tense. He considers just saying no, but he's weak. If Lance is extending an olive branch...

_Nyma?_

_Shes away for study abroad so I cant even talk to her :(( besides im lonelyyy pay attention to me_

_Fine. When?_

_:)))) saturday????_

_Sure. Not like I'm doing anything else._

_Omg great I s2g the other oas are great but I see their faces constantly and I need someone who isnt complaining about being a temporary parent ily keith my savior_

_That_ Keith doesn't respond to, because there's nothing he can say that isn't either a blatant lie or the unfortunately brutal truth.

 

Whatever confidence they both had—whatever semblance of normality when they last spoke—has flown out the window and shattered on the ground some fifteen floors below and is now splattered unattractively against the sidewalk like shards of a broken piano.

And it seems to have taken out Keith's dignity on the way down.

“So...” Lance says, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Yesterday, Keith was in shock. Seeing Lance was a reboot to his system, and during the startup time, he didn't have it in him to feel anything but absolute terrified awe.

Now, though, one look at Lance's tan skin and gorgeous eyes and perfect, albeit awkward, smile, and Keith remembers everything they could have been that he threw away.

Keith stares through the doorway of his apartment. He leans on the door for support, and instead swings it open further, stumbling.

“Can... I come in?” Lance asks.

Keith finds his feet under him. “Coffee?” he says, instead of answering.

“Sure,” Lance says, because he's an addict. Keith can't really blame him. College does that to you.

“Just let me...” Keith pauses, turning towards the apartment. Normally, his jacket is resting on the back of couch. Normally.

Lance still has it.

“...Never mind. Let's go.”

They walk to the usual coffee shop in silence. Keith shoves his hands in his pockets and tries to think of something to say. He kicks a rock down the sidewalk. When they approach where it'd tumbled to a stop, Lance kicks it instead.

Lance holds the door open for Keith when they get to the coffee shop. Goes out of his way to step forward to do so. It's intentional, not instinct, and Keith feels doubly bad for not being able to find words to tell Lance—well, anything.

Keith approaches the counter and tells the barista his order.

“I'm paying for his, too,” Keith blurts out. Because the first words he says in attempting to fix his and Lance's relationship aren't even spoken _to_ Lance.

“What?” Lance squawks. “No. No way. I'm paying.”

Keith scowls. “Not happening,” he tells Lance. Then, to the barista: “Add on a breve caramel latte—iced—with whipped cream because this heathen eats it off the top.”

“...Right,” the barista says.

She reads off the total cost, but before Keith can pass her his card, Lance slams a twenty onto the counter with an offhand, “Keep the change.”

“Lance,” Keith growls. “I said I'll pay.”

“Well,” Lance huffs. “I guess you're not.”

The barista, looking at least a little intimidated, glances between them. “Can... I get a name for the order, please?”

“K—”

“—Lance.”

Lance shoves his twenty closer and uses his other hand to shove Keith's offered credit card out of the way. The barista gingerly takes the bill from under his palm.

“Your order will be out in a minute.”

Honestly, Keith has to give her credit for keeping her composure, considering he probably looks like he's ready to murder Lance right now.

Lance shoulders him away from the counter, nudges Keith towards a table until he can shove him down into a booth. He slides in on the opposite side.

“Really?” Keith hisses.

“Well, I wouldn't have done it if you hadn't tried to pay for both of us in the first place.”

“I owe you,” Keith retorts.

Lance scoffs. “You owe _me_? Yeah, right. It's not like the last time I talked to you besides the other day—” Lance cuts off and glares at the table, cheeks darkened. Keith's not sure if it's from the memory, embarrassment, or anger.

“I do,” Keith insists. “I fucked things up between us.”

Lance looks up at him, incredulously. “No shit.”

Keith sighs. “I'm sorry,” he says. “For what it's worth.”

Lance stares at him for a moment. Takes in a deep breath.

The barista calls for him.

Silently, Lance slides out of the booth to go get their drinks. Keith watches him go.

When Lance comes back, his expression is hard. Keith can see the furrow in his brow as he sets both their drinks on the table and returns to his seat.

“Well...” Keith finally breaks the silence. “You're the one who wanted to hang out.”

Lance lets out a long exhale. “You're right. I...” He presses his lips together, stubborn.

Keith quirks an eyebrow at him and waits.

“I'm sorry, too,” Lance says. “I shouldn't be such an ass about it when... I wanted it, and you were right.”

Keith's other brow raises to join the other in surprise. “About?”

“Nyma doesn't—” Lance clamps his mouth shut. He looks away, refusing to meet Keith's gaze. “Never mind. You were right. Leave it at that.”

Keith stares at Lance, confused. He wracks his brain to remember what the hell Lance is talking about. Lance, who almost never talks in riddles because he always talks too much. What could he possibly be unwilling to say—

_Does Nyma go down on you as good as I do?_

Keith feels his cheeks flush, and he clears his throat awkwardly.

“Let's just...” Lance continues, still not looking at him. “Start over, yeah?”

“That... would be nice. I, uh...”

Lance looks at him, then.

“I missed you,” Keith says with conviction. “You're one of my best friends. It's good to have you back.”

For a moment, Lance stays perfectly still. And then he smiles.

Keith thinks that maybe, maybe, they can be okay again.

 

Lance barges into Keith's apartment without even knocking, and Keith nearly trips over the coffee table. They've seen each other pretty often over the past couple of weeks, but, even so, Lance doesn't make a habit of breaking into Keith's living room.

“What the hell?”

“I come bearing cake!” Lance announces.

“ _What the hell_?”

Lance flits over to him, offering up a slice of cake on a paper plate. “Half-way point for orientations. OAs get a break, so we were celebrating. I thought you might be interested in the leftovers.”

Keith tentatively takes the plate from him. “Thanks,” he says as he goes to the kitchen to grab a fork.

Lance drops down onto the couch, limbs splayed easily over the back and arm rest. “I don't know how you do it.”

“Do what?” Keith asks around a mouthful of cake. “This is good.”

“Survive summer,” Lance answers. “Did you really stay here last year too?”

Keith nods and sits down next to him.

“It's so... quiet,” Lance huffs. “Uneventful.”

“Uneventful is great,” Keith defends. “It's peaceful.”

“But it's _boring_ ,” Lance complains. He sits up enough to reach for Keith's plate and swipe his finger through the icing on his cake. “What do you do all day?” Lance pops his finger into his mouth.

Keith watches. Swallows. Forces himself to look away. They were finally okay again; no need to ruin it so soon.

“Read, mostly,” Keith finally says. “Did you know they're planing to make the freeway west of campus an underground road?”

“What?” Lance says. “Weird. Cool, I guess. Is that the shit you read?”

“Sometimes. Books, too. I caught up on a bunch of shows. Oh, I finished watching season three of _The_ _Magicians_.”

“You did _not_ ,” Lance gasps, affronted. “We were watching that together!”

Keith shoves a piece of cake in his mouth and doesn't look at Lance. Lance swats at his shoulder.

“We're watching it,” Lance says, diving for the TV remote. “Right now. You're buying me dinner. We're watching it. You owe me.”

Keith swallows, and finally glances over at Lance: warm, easy-going, beautiful.

“I didn't think you'd ever really talk to me again,” Keith says quietly. “So I finished it.”

Lance's gaze flicks to him, surprised. He watches Keith, eyes searching, and Keith stares back, caught. Finally, Lance's mouth twitches up into a smile that's touched with regret. “Well, we're good now, right?”

Keith feels his own smile take over, even if its weak. “Yeah. We're good.”

Lance bumps his shoulder against Keith's. “So no hard feelings.” He snags another bit of icing from Keith's plate. “You still owe me dinner for watching without me.”

Keith feels warmth spread to his fingertips, and his smile turns _real_. He has Lance back. He has Lance _back_. “Okay,” he promises.

 

“I think I just saw Nyma.”

Lance's head pops out from where he's buried it in the grocery store freezer. “What? No way. I didn't know she was back already.”

Keith squints in the direction he'd seen a blond someone disappear in. “Maybe it wasn't her.”

“Must not have been,” Lance says, emerging victorious with a box of ice cream sandwiches. “She hasn't told me she's home.”

Keith shrugs, and accepts the ice cream sandwiches in the grocery basket he's carrying. They'd made the trip to the store under the pretense of buying supplies to make actual _real_ food and not get takeout for the fifth time this week.

Keith frowns and wonders when he and Lance started getting dinner together each night. Since the beginning of August, maybe?

How much of the summer has he spent with Lance, despite how busy Lance has been as an orientation advisor? Further: how much time has _Lance_ spent with _him_? Surely not all his free time is spent with Keith.

Keith glances over at Lance and finds Lance watching him with something like contentedness in his gaze.

Maybe... it isn't so bad, after all.

Keith looks down at their basket. He scowls. “We need at least one green thing.”

“Lucky charms have green things,” Lance says.

Keith sighs. “One naturally green thing.”

“Do they have organic lucky charms?”

Keith passes Lance the basket. “I'm going to go get some broccoli.”

“No, Keith! Bad Keith!” Lance cries, trailing after him.

Keith forgets all about Nyma while he tries to wrestle some vegetables into the basket while Lance deflects him.

 

The problem with being friends with Lance again is that Keith has fully accepted the fate his heart has resigned him to. They are friends. They are nothing more. As the final week of summer approaches, Keith falls in love with Lance all over again, and there is nothing he can do about it.

 

It's a moment of... of giving up, really. Of giving in. A lapse in judgment; a lapse in willpower.

Lance sits next to Keith on the roof of their apartment, a beer hanging loosely from his fingertips while they watch the stars.

When Keith was a boy, the stardust called to him. Drew him in like a detective to a mystery. There are secrets, hidden up there, and Keith longs to know them. The night sky beckons.

But now, his gaze is not on the stars. He's watching Lance, watching as Lance tips his head back to take a sip of beer. He watches his throat work as he swallows, the way his hair falls across his temple, the shine of moonlight over the bridge of his nose.

Lance chances him staring, and sets the bottle down, turning to Keith. “What?”

Keith is dazed by the moment, by his heart beating rapidly in his chest, by Lance, _Lance_. “I've fallen in love with you.”

His voice is steady, unwavering, and his heart is, too.

There is nothing fake in his words. He means them, entirely, and he expects nothing in return. He just... wanted them out there. He wanted Lance to know.

He doesn't know why.

Maybe it's because he knows Nyma is coming back once the semester starts, and this quiet bubble of friendship will likely be popped into nothing. Maybe because he wants Lance to understand that he knows how it feels, now, to love someone and know they don't love you back. Maybe because the stars told him to.

Lance stares at him.

Keith realizes, belated, that Lance probably thinks Keith wants something from him. He doesn't. Just this. Just the night and Lance and to keep him as close as Lance will allow.

“I don't want you to say it back,” Keith says, quiet. “Just... so you know, I guess. It doesn't change anything.”

But Lance's expression turns pained. “No—” he whispers, soft, horrified. “It changes everything.”

Keith's brow furrows. “No, it—what? Lance?”

But Lance is scrambling up, with a rushed, “I should go.”

He's gone.

 

Keith does not see Lance the next day. Doesn't talk to him.

Compared to their usual dinner plans—or at least, text conversations, when Lance was busy with orientation stuff—his absence is a weight on Keith's shoulders.

It feels like the apartment is colder, now. It has nothing to do with the fact that summer is coming to an end.

Keith orders takeout. Eats an ice cream sandwich out of his freezer to make himself feel better.

Except, it doesn't make him feel better at all, really.

 

When the doorbell rings, Keith expects it to be Shiro. It doesn't occur to him that Shiro has keys. He'd been texting about potentially coming back a day before his research shenanigans ends in order to move some of his stuff back into the apartment.

Keith does not expect Lance to be standing awkwardly in his entryway.

Keith's heart aches at the sight of him. Lance is here to tell him to stay out of his life, stop fucking it up.

“I'm sorry, I...” Keith starts, but as soon as he opens his mouth, Lance holds a hand up in a _stop_ gesture and looks expectantly at Keith until he trails off.

“Let me go first?” Lance asks, uncharacteristically timid.

Keith nods.

Lance stands in Keith's doorway, takes a deep breath, and starts:

“I have never stopped being in love with you,” and that alone is enough to leave Keith winded. All the air knocks out of Keith's lungs, but Lance keeps going. “I'm sorry it took me long enough to get my shit together. I—I wasn't using Nyma on purpose, but I didn't love her, either. And I didn't mean to lead her on... Even if she apparently dumped me while on her study abroad trip—”

“What?” Keith croaks.

“—Yeah, so apparently, she texted me but it didn't go through? She's been back for about three weeks now, and I've been single for about two months, according to her. Anyway, point is, it didn't work out, and... Well, I didn't want to say anything the other night because I thought I was still dating her, and, as much as I like you, I wouldn't just—”

“It'd be shitty to cheat,” Keith deadpans. “I mean...”

“Yeah... I didn't want to do that again...” Lance mumbles. He brightens slightly. “But! Good news is—well, I'm available.” His cheeks darken, and he glances at the floor before returning to Keith's face. “If you'll have me?”

Keith stares at him. His heart jumps in his chest. Is this a joke? “What are you—of course, I want you. You couldn't keep me off you even when you were dating Nyma.”

“That—” Lance's brow furrows. “You got me there.”

Keith wants to pull Lance into his apartment. Wants to hold him close. Wants to make up for lost time.

But Lance hesitates in the doorway. This entire time, he's had his other hand behind his back, holding something, but now he reveals it. “I, uh, still have your red jacket? I hadn't meant to keep it. It just kinda... happened. But, um.” He offers the jacket in his hand—the one he wears constantly, off-army-green and worn—to Keith. “Boyfriend jacket?”

“Oh my God,” Keith whispers, absolutely stunned, because, really? This is what he was nervous about.

But, meeting Lance's gaze, Keith sees there's something more to this. It's giving his heart back, when Keith gave Lance his back with that red jacket. Accepting this isn't just about the trade—it's about Lance.

“Yes,” Keith says. “Boyfriend jacket.”

Lance grins at him, and steps through the door. Keith takes the jacket from him and slips it on, even though the summer heat makes it far too hot. He can bear it for a moment.

Keith is the first one to reach for him, brushing their fingers together. Then, the spell is broken. Lance had been waiting for him, but now he slips his arms around Keith's waist, pulling him close.

Keith's breath hitches, and despite all he's done with Lance—fucked him into the mattress, been fucked—it's this moment that means everything. Lance brushes his nose along Keith's movements soft and filled with adoration.

“Can I kiss you?” Lance whispers. He'd never asked before. Keith feels his heart squeeze, skip a beat, do gymnastics in his chest.

“Always,” Keith whispers back.

And so, Lance does.

 

The rules of the arrangement are as follows: _I love you, and you love me, and that's all we'll ever need._

 


End file.
